


The Best Medicine

by Evergreene



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24859324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evergreene/pseuds/Evergreene
Summary: D’Artagnan has an unfortunate encounter with one of Aramis’s medicines. Set after season 2's The Good Traitor (aka when Aramis still has baby-brain).
Comments: 16
Kudos: 138





	The Best Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my computer for eons as I've had absolute crippling writer's block with it. Having even bigger writer's block with another story cajoled me into finishing it and I hope you enjoy the result. It's been a long time since I've posted something in the Musketeers fandom so thoughts are especially welcome. :)

‘D’Artagnan?’ 

The voice belongs to Aramis, he knows that, yet he cannot seem to focus, too distracted by the pain that has started in his gut. Something is wrong, something hurts, and he needs to tell Aramis so he can fix it, but his vision is dimming and the world is fading and he can barely think to understand the words sounding somewhere from above his head. 

‘This isn’t right. He shouldn’t be reacting like this-’ 

It is Aramis again and there are hands on his arms, lowering him down into the rustling leaves. Yet Athos is the one who answers, voice tight and controlled as he demands to know what is meant. 

‘I need to check…’ says Aramis. 

‘…what do you mean, check? Check what...?’ 

There is a clink from above him and d’Artagnan remembers the glass bottle he’d lifted to his lips just a short while past - small and green and cool and fine. He had looked at Aramis when he had finished with it and had made a face at him as he’d tossed the empty bottle back, and Aramis had laughed, clapped him on the shoulder and promised the contents would ward off his oncoming cough. 

‘…I don’t understand. This isn’t what I thought it was…’ 

There is a rustle of movement and Aramis is there, dark hair curling around his pale-white face, shoulders rigid against the rich canopy of the red autumn trees. 

‘D’Artagnan?’ he says. ‘D’Artagnan, I need you to get that up for me.’ 

Pain washes over him and he wants to ask why, but heavy boots are crunching across the dry, rustling ground and he can hear rumbling words that mean Porthos has arrived. 

‘Get what up? What’s —hey, he alright?’ 

Yet familiar hands are already reaching for him, gathering him up under his shoulders until he is forced into sitting half-upright. Cool fingers press gently against his burning-hot cheeks, the hardness of a waterflask is tilted to his lips, then the fingers shift firmly to push back his sweat-damp hair. 

‘D’Artagnan,’ comes Aramis’s voice, close to his ear. ‘D’Artagnan, did you hear me? You have to get that up, it’s poison-’ 

It is then the world splinters as his insides twist and the urge to get up whatever he just swallowed crashes over him like a wave. And it’s blinding, burning, tearing through him, and it’s like some beast has its claws in his belly and is trying to rip them out- 

Angry voices erupt over his head. 

‘What the devil were you thinking! You gave him the wrong one?’ 

Another voice joins in then, deeper than the first and raised to a bellow. ‘Leave him be, Athos! It was a mistake, any one of us could’ve done it-’ 

But Athos’s temper, always so tightly reined, has apparently been given leash. ‘First the marketplace, Aramis, and now this? How many more of us must suffer before you remember to focus on what you are doing?’ 

‘I don’t have time for this, Athos, I need to help him-’ 

‘Look at him!’ 

He retches. There’s ice in his gut now and he’s not sure where it is from, from whatever was in the bottle or the argument up above. All he knows is that this is wrong and the pain’s getting worse and he’s not sure what more of it he can take. 

Desperate, he shoves aside the hands bracing his shoulders so he can claw his fingers across the ground, searching for a way to escape. Dead-dying leaves shatter guilelessly beneath his grasp, but he moans in relief as he catches amongst them a few long strands of grass in which he can entangle his fingers. He pulls them in tight, sighs in relief as they cut into his skin, and finally he’s able to let go... 

\-------- 

He opens his eyes to sunlight. It sparkles through the trees, red and gold and tan and gleaming, and he realises he is on his back, looking up towards the sky. A cool cloth is pressed against his forehead, his loose shirt has been pulled aside, and as he blinks, lethargic and slow, he almost thinks he can see Constance, red curls turned to flame as her touch leaves a burning benediction upon his skin. 

It is then his stomach heaves. His body is rebelling and he is hauled harshly upwards, onto his knees. His head falls forward as strong arms wrap about his middle, jerking once, then again, and he's retching through a throat torn red-raw and bloody. He knows he is sobbing as the pain wrenches through him, the wetness of it is branding his cheeks, and he hates this, hates being helpless and weak and out of control, but abruptly the pain is gone and large calloused hands are catching at his shoulders, tugging him backwards so he doesn’t fall into his own sick. 

He is panting, exhausted, but cannot find it in himself to care, near light-headed with relief as he realises whatever was inside him has passed. The folds of a cloak settle heavily about him and blindly he reaches up to tug them forwards, pulling the thick cloth clumsily about his shoulders. His hands feel distant, paper-thin and weak, but he is grateful for the cloak’s weight, for it grounds him as the world begins to make sense once again. 

‘Well? Will he make it?’ 

Athos’ voice is tight with anger, but the fury from before has lessened. Hearing it, a rapid wash of relief eases through him, but it is abruptly cut short as, following a terse answer, the unmistakable tread of Aramis’s boots crunch away through the fallen autumn leaves. 

Darkness is encroaching across his vision and he tries to hold on, needing to know that the three of them are still here, that they have not fractured apart because of him. But when he summons strength enough to be able to raise his head, Aramis is already gone. 

\---------

It is after dark when he returns. D’Artagnan has already taken in the numerous cupfuls of water Porthos has pushed upon him, and the fire Athos had set has long since settled into slumbering embers. It had gone unspoken that they would not head back to Paris that night, not after such a close call with his life. Instead, they had settled down to rest and sleep and wait – for him to regain his strength, for Aramis to return and for all of them to find their equilibrium with each other once more. 

Curled on his cloak, with another two laid atop him like a blanket, and with Athos’ saddlebag having been fashioned into an awkward, bulky pillow, d'Artagnan stirs when he hears Aramis approaching through the fallen leaves. It is an instant’s decision to close his eyes, and he keeps them shut as a soft rumble of voices arise. Then it seems as though Aramis has passed the checkpoint that is the others, for a moment later he can sense him sinking into a crouch at his side.

His friend’s fingers are slow and tentative as they press first against his forehead, then back upon his cheeks, and they still hold a slight shake even as they reach beneath his jaw, searching for the soft, steady rhythm of life that beats against his neck. 

It is at that he finds himself worming an unsteady hand from out beneath his plethora of cloaks to grab at the loose folds of Aramis's shirt. His fingers still feel thick and clumsy, not quite his own, but as he slits open his eyes he knows it will be enough to make his point. And sure enough, after the first flinch, Aramis stills, and a tightening of his grip is all it takes to keep him there, both of them ignoring what they know about Aramis being easily able to get free. 

Aramis’s eyes are black pools in the darkness when he finally speaks, all shadows and vulnerability underneath the forest canopy. ‘I should have checked,’ he murmurs, and positioned as they are before the smouldering remains of the fire, d’Artagnan can just about make out Aramis lifting up his free arm to run his fingers through his hair, leaving his fist bunched tight in the thick curls when he is done. ‘I always check, d’Artagnan. One sniff of it would have been enough to tell me it was the wrong bottle. Why didn’t I check this time?’ 

He manages a shrug underneath his cloaks, feels tiredness ripple over him, near impossible to keep back for much longer. ‘It was a mistake,’ he rasps through a still-wrecked throat. 

‘I could have killed you.’ 

‘You didn’t.’ But he has to know. ‘What was it?’ 

There is silence a moment. ‘A liniment,’ comes the answer finally, and Aramis’ own voice is caught rough in remorse as he admits it. ‘For the horses’ hooves, in case of infection.’ 

‘Not quite so good for a cough, then.’ 

Aramis gives a snorted laugh, sober and worn. ‘No.’ 

His eyelids are closing against his will. ‘If you wanted to kill me,’ he makes himself say sleepily, ‘you must try harder. I’m not so easy to get rid of, Aramis.’ 

There is a soft huff. ‘There won’t be a next time, my dear friend. I can promise you that.’ 

He nods, knowing the words for the truth even as his fingers unclench laxly, unwillingly, from Aramis’s shirt. They are not empty long though, for Aramis encloses his hand in both his own before slumping exhaustedly down to sit at his side, muscled thigh pressed close and adding to the warmth. 

With Aramis’s eyes upon him, with his friends close and dear, he falls finally into sleep.


End file.
